"WHAT will we do
now?" said the adjutant, troubled and excited.
"Bury him,"
said Timothy Lean.
The two officers looked
down close to their toes where lay the body of their comrade. The face was
chalk-blue; gleaming eyes stared at the sky. Over the two upright figures was a
windy sound of bullets, and on the top of the hill, Lean's prostrate company of
Spitzbergen infantry was firing measured volleys.
"Don't you think
it would be better--" began the adjutant. "We might leave him until
to-morrow."
"No," said
Lean, "I can't hold that post an hour longer. I've got to fall back, and
we've got to bury old Bill."
"Of course,"
said the adjutant at once. "Your men got intrenching tools?"
Lean shouted back to
his little firing line, and two men came slowly, one with a pick, one with a
shovel. They stared in the direction of the Rostina sharpshooters. Bullets
cracked near their ears. "Dig here," said Lean, gruffly. The men,
thus caused to lower their glances to the turf, became hurried and frightened
merely because they could not look to see whence the bullets came. The dull beat
of the pick striking the earth sounded amid the swift snap of close bullets.
Presently the other private began to shovel.
"I suppose,"
said the adjutant, slowly, "we'd better search his clothes for . . .
things.
Lean nodded; together
in curious abstraction they looked at the body. Then Lean stirred his
shoulders, suddenly arousing himself. "Yes," he said, "we'd
better see . . . what he's got." He dropped to his knees and approached
his hands to the body of the dead officer. But his hands wavered over the
buttons of the tunic. The first button was brick-red with drying blood, and he
did not seem to dare to touch it.
"Go on," said
the adjutant, hoarsely.
Lean stretched his
wooden hand, and his fingers fumbled blood-stained buttons. . . . At last he arose
with a ghastly face. He had gathered a watch, a whistle, a pipe, a tobacco
pouch, a handkerchief, a little case of cards and papers. He looked at the
adjutant. There was a silence. The adjutant was feeling that he had been a
coward to make Lean do all the grizzly business.
"Well," said
Lean, "that's all, I think. You have his sword and revolver."
"Yes," said
the adjutant, his face working. And then he burst out in a sudden strange fury
at the two privates. "Why don't you hurry up with that grave? What are you
doing, anyhow?"
Even as he cried out in
this passion, the two men were laboring for their lives. Ever overhead, the
bullets were spitting.
The grave was finished.
It was not a masterpiece--poor little shallow thing. Lean and the adjutant
again looked at each other in a curious, silent communication.
Suddenly the adjutant
croaked out a weird laugh. It was a terrible laugh which had its origin in that
part of the mind which is first moved by the singing of the nerves.
"Well," he said, humorously to Lean, "I suppose we had best
tumble him in."
"Yes," said
Lean. The two privates stood waiting bent over on their implements. "I
suppose," said Lean, "it would be better if we laid him in
ourselves."
"Yes," said
the adjutant. Then apparently remembering that he had made Lean search the
body, he stooped with great fortitude and took hold of the dead officer's
clothing. Lean joined him. Both were particular that their fingers should not
feel the corpse. They tugged away; the corpse lifted, heaved, toppled, flopped
into the grave, and the two officers, straightening, looked at each other. They
sighed with relief.
The adjutant said:
"I suppose we should . . . we should say something. Do you know the
service, Tim?"
"They don't read
the service until the grave is filled in," said Lean.
"Don't they?"
said the adjutant, shocked that he had made the mistake. "Oh, well,"
he cried, suddenly, "let us . . . let us say something. . . . while he can
hear us."
"All right,"
said Lean. "Do you know the service?"
"I can't remember
a line of it," said the adjutant.
Lean was extremely
dubious. "I can repeat two lines out--"
"Well, do
it," said the adjutant. "Go as far as you can. That's better than
nothing. And . . . the beasts have got our range exactly."
Lean looked at his two
men. "Attention!" he barked. The privates came to attention with a
click, looking much aggrieved. The adjutant lowered his helmet to his knee.
Lean, bare-headed, stood over the grave. The Rostina sharpshooters fired
briskly.
"O, Father, our
friend has sunk in the deep waters of death, but his spirit has leaped toward
Thee as the bubble arises from the lips of the drowning. Perceive, we beseech,
O, Father, the little flying bubble and--"
Lean, although husky
and ashamed, had suffered no hesitation up to this point, but he stopped with a
hopeless feeling and looked at the corpse.
The adjutant moved
uneasily. "And from Thy superb heights--" he began, and then he, too,
came to an end.
"And from Thy
superb heights," said Lean.
The adjutant suddenly
remembered a phrase in the back part of the Spitzbergen burial service, and he
exploited it with the triumphant manner of a man who has recalled everything
and can go on.
"Oh, God, have
mercy--"
Oh, God, have
mercy--" said Lean.
"'Mercy,'"
repeated the adjutant, in a quick failure.
"'Mercy,'"
said Lean. And then he was moved by some violence of feeling, for he turned
suddenly upon his two men and tigerishly said: "Throw the dirt in."
The fire of the Rostina
sharpshooters was accurate and continuous.
One of the aggrieved
privates came forward with his shovel. He lifted his first shovel load of
earth, and for a moment of inexplicable hesitation, it was held poised above
this corpse which, from its chalk-blue face, looked keenly out from the grave.
Then the soldier emptied his shovel on--on the feet.
Timothy Lean felt as if
tons had been swiftly lifted from off his forehead. He had felt that perhaps
the private might empty the shovel on--on the face. It had been emptied on the
feet. There was a great point gained there. The adjutant began to babble.
"Well, of course . . . a man we've messed with all these years . . . impossible
. . . you can't, you know, leave your intimate friends rotting on the field . .
. Go on, for God's sake, and shovel, you."
The man with the shovel
suddenly ducked, grabbed his left arm with his right and looked at his officer
for orders. Lean picked the shovel from the ground. "Go to the rear,"
he said to the wounded man. He also addressed the other private.
"You get under
cover, too. I'll . . . I'll finish this business."
The wounded man
scrambled hastily for the top of the ridge without devoting any glances to the
direction from whence the bullets came, and the other man followed at an equal
pace, but he was different in that he looked back anxiously three times. This
is merely the way--often--of the hit and the unhit.
Timothy Lean filled the
shovel, hesitated, and then in a movement which was like a gesture of
abhorrence, he flung the dirt into the grave, and as it landed it made a
sound--plop. Lean suddenly paused and mopped his brow--a tired laborer.
"Perhaps we have
been wrong," said the adjutant. His glance wavered stupidly. "It
[illustration omitted] might have been better if we hadn't buried him just at
this time. Of course, if we advance to-morrow, the body would have been--"
"Damn you,"
said Lean. "Shut your mouth. He was not the senior officer."
He again filled the
shovel and flung in the earth. . . . . For a space, Lean worked frantically,
like a man digging himself out of danger. . . . Soon there was nothing to be
seen but the chalk-blue face. Lean filled the shovel. . . . "Good Good
[sic]," he cried to the adjutant, why didn't you turn him somehow when you
put him in? This--"
The adjutant
understood. He was pale to the lips. "Go on, man," he cried, beseechingly,
almost in a shout. . . . Lean swung back the shovel; it went forward in a
pendulum curve. When the earth landed it made a sound--plop.